


In Terms of Words

by jasmiinitee



Series: Shadow Town [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jim Whump too, Medication, Morse Whump, That one wasn't as fun in the 50s and 60s i guess, Werewolf AU, Which was fun, Worldbuilding, and now I had to make up more Strange relatives, emotional child abuse, in a world where folklore creatures are real but somewhat rare and things still work the way they do, it's not entirely malicious i guess but still, nothing is nice for the boy tbh, so idk, some werewolves turn after getting bit by one, the Morse household isn't a particularly functional one, who is who at the station, young teenager is the age hereditary werewolf condition starts to surface
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmiinitee/pseuds/jasmiinitee
Summary: The only consolation given to parents and caretakers of children who grew up to be werewolves, was that at least those were easier to keep in check than the wilder and larger, bitten beasts of that cursed lot.It could have been much worse.Not that it made much difference around the full moon. Safety was the first priority; either medication, confined spaces, or both, doctor's orders. Schools could hardly be expected to facilitate such needs if they weren't special institutions./ / /A flashback/worldbuilding piece of a scattered supernatural/occult AU I'm working on.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a Sunday, and Endeavour felt horrible from the moment he got up from his bed, all the way to lunch, and even worse afterwards. And Gwen had invited over for a brew the two horribly loud ladies from church, Mrs Atkinson and Mrs Newman, and had told him to set the table. Endeavour had declined, and she'd scolded him for it. But he hadn't apologised.

Even if he could do so on most other weeks, grudgingly, he just couldn't touch silverware and couldn't handle her nice tea spoons at all, not now, not before full moon, because it hurt his hands to the bone, and even though he told her so, and had told her before, she didn't believe him at all.

 

He knew it was that the moon was going to be harsh tonight, and that it wasn't just a feeling or him being difficult because he'd seen it on the calendar and heard it on the radio, too, with the weather, but when he said so, Gwen just stared at him with a shocked and helpless look for long enough that he did it anyway.

And then he wept when he held the spoons, because they burned his hands, unable to stop it at all, and she scolded him for it too. She said that he should have behaved himself better, and told the doctor about something like that, so that she could have managed a day without his _illness_ getting in the way.

 

Gwen took the rest of the spoons from him, and Endeavour went to sink his hands in cold water until they went numb and prickled, because even that was a preferable option to the furious burning on his skin.

He was just glad that his father wasn't home yet, was either still at work, on a Sunday, or else already at the pub, on a Sunday.

 

But it was better that way. Endeavour truly didn't want him to come home at all, because he didn't want the evening to fall or the night to arrive, because everything was turning his stomach and itching at his skin, and his knees and shoulders and all other joints as well were aching like mad.

He didn't want the night and what it brought with it, none of it. And it made him weep quietly all the more that he still didn't know why his mother had never complained, when it all always felt so terrible, all around the clock, on these last days.

 

When Gwen and the women were talking, Joyce started whinging and complaining about something girl children complained about in the afternoon, and Endeavour really didn't want to be angry at her when she'd done nothing to him, but it made him uneasy. Gwen told him to help Joyce, told him to look after her and be of some use, and he wanted to do it _if only for Joyce's sake_ , when she was having such a boring time and was so nervous that afternoon.

He took her up to his room to keep an eye on her, and asked her if she wanted to read something together. She nodded, and said 'all right', but she was very shy about it, and he couldn't even blame her about it, because he felt the same way.

 

Everything was all right otherwise, it was just that he was nervous, and he was making her even more nervous than she'd been, with how he twitched at every sound and how he couldn't hold still, and how his mouth felt wet and full of wool and made him mispronounce some words or have to clear his throat in the middle of others. His hands grew clammy, and he constantly felt sick to his stomach, and Joyce might have been very small but she wasn't at all stupid.

When she interrupted his clumsy reading aloud to ask him if he was feeling unwell because of the moon again, he tried to nod but started to cry instead, loudly and wetly this time, like a stream after spring thaw, and Joyce backed away from him and their book.

He cried, so much so that he had to push the book away, and press his face into a pillow because it wasn't even bawling anymore, it was wailing and howling, and he couldn't help himself though he knew it was an ugly sound.

 

Gwen rushed in to get Joyce away, furious at him for making such _horrible_ and _godforsaken noise_ , and ruining her good day, her Sunday, and he knew he made Joyce cry too but he just couldn't help it, no matter how hard he tried.

It wasn't even a headache, when it was in his skull bone and in the roots of his teeth and in the place where he sometimes felt his jaw bone click a little oddly when he chewed. He didn't want to risk even trying for an apology, when all that would have come out was a horrible animal yowling, just _noise_ , just like she'd said.

 

He didn't want the night to come, he would have loved to read for Joyce and then read something for himself and maybe listen to the nice record he'd got to pick for himself last Christmas. But he couldn't. He could just listen to the horrible way his breathing wasn't even his breathing anymore, and he knew it was called hyperventilating, but he also knew that it was called _growling_ at times, and he hated it, all of it.

It hurt more than last month, Endeavour was sure of it, because his hands shook and his stomach rolled so that he couldn't even sit down for tea, when Gwen told him to, not even when Gwen and Joyce were out of the way, not even when he only tried to force down the glass of milk and ended up spilling it all over the floor instead.

 

He didn't want the night to arrive or for his father to come home, but come they both did, and when they did and he was called upon, Endeavour was crying again before his father even said anything to him. Before he told him to stop fussing about like that and scaring the women, Gwen and Joyce, with how he was acting out, before he even called for heavens for what a horrible whelp he was, 'once again tonight, I see'.

What good was it all, the cursing and glaring, when just how he lived was enough proof that if there was a God, he was nothing but a joke and a _horrible forsaken thing_ for that Lord, and nothing his father would say could do anything to make his God care for Endeavour at all.

He _hated it,_ hated all of it, and when his father told him to get up and get the jumper off, because they didn't have the money to get him a new one if he turned _rabid_ , Endeavour said it out loud.

'I hate this,' he said, or maybe he yelled or barked or howled, he wasn't quite so sure about it himself.

'You're not the only one,' his father said, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, of which there was more than on other days of the month, and dragged him to the cellar door.

 

Endeavour didn't kick or scream or claw or bark, because he knew as they both knew that he couldn't just stay in his room that night, not after ruining the curtains and the carpet last time, and the one time he'd got through the door to his room and the front door as well, and wandered lost around the garden.

But he did plead and he did beg, he begged not to be shut alone again. If his father could have called the doctor for something, there ought to be _something_ , that they could have done, something that his father could have said, at least, because Endeavour was sorry about it all and hated it just as much as he did. He didn't want to be alone again, because he was so _scared_ , and horrified, petrified almost, yes, he was _petrified_ in terror and that was what he was.

 

His father just dragged him down the cellar steps, looked at him, and picked up the thick woollen blanket from where Endeavour had folded it last time, on top of the old travel chest.

'There's nothing I can do to help you, Endeavour, but keep you under lock and key, and pray,' he said, and he sounded tired and scornful, and smelled like he'd been drinking, on a Sunday nonetheless. Because they didn't have the money for what the doctor had written the prescription for, not for much else either, not until his next pay day, which wasn't yet, and all of that Endeavour knew already, and he knew that it was also what the doctors all told to do if you couldn't help a werewolf with the medicine, just to shut it away, then, not to let it disturb the people or curse anyone else with what it was.

Not he, just it.

But maybe it was better that way, because maybe it also meant that _he_ wasn't _it_ and they weren't the same, so maybe they all just hated _it_ and not _him_ instead, and maybe _he_ wasn't a burden and an expense and a horrible thing but _it_ was instead.

 

His father gave the blanket to him and told him to turn the light on if it made him feel better. And then he heard the lock click and he heard his father's footsteps further away, but he heard them still, and heard the pipes and the way the cellar lamp made an uncomfortable sound when he stumbled around and turned it on, and smelled all the damp and dusty smells of the cellar again, and the old horsehair mattress that at least was still somewhat soft, and the foreign and familiar smell of his own fur on the woollen blanket. And, while he still could use his hands, he took off his vest and his shoes and his trousers and socks and pants, and he folded them neatly on the old boxes in the corner, and set the shoes by the stairs, and then he wrapped himself up in the blanket, and sat down on the mattress, wiping at his eyes. Then he realised that he was hungry, and he felt very stupid for not forcing down more toast or even the glass of milk.

 

But then Endeavour couldn't think about it anymore. He couldn't think much about anything at all, when the ache turned into pain and then into agony, and his head was buzzing and he couldn't form a thought. The only thing that he really thought about, was that maybe he hated that feeling even more than the one of thinking a bit too much about everything.

 

And then he couldn't even think about that, because he was a wolf, he was _it_ , and it didn't think much of anything in terms of words.


	2. Chapter 2

'How are you feeling?' a doctor had asked right after he'd got bit, in the hospital, dressed all up in a horribly bright white coat that made Jim feel sick.

He hadn't known what to say, because he'd never before felt like he did then. Never before had his head been so full of so many loud and bright and choking things that weren't thoughts at all, just noise and fear, and the sharp smell of alcohol that they used to disinfect things in a place like that. And his own blood that was still soaking the bandages and plasters.

Never before had his bones hurt like that, from the _inside,_ and to be absolutely honest, he'd never before really even thought about his bones at all.

 

How should you have said _I think I've got bones_ and not sound raving mad while you were at it? You couldn't. So, Jim hadn't.

'I feel horrible,' he'd said instead.

'Now, young man. Try to rest, it will pass,' said the doctor.

 

'Do you think that the pain lessened after the bite settled? Or do you think it grew worse over the night?' another doctor had asked, when they were getting him checked up for the right kind of pills with his old man.

There was no way to say, because he couldn't remember how much everything hurt before, during or after, because it all had hurt all through the night very much. He'd just shaken his head to the doctor, and his father had said that they needed whatever could dull the pain most. Just to be safe.

'Even if the curse is fresh, and not inherited, I cannot prescribe children under sixteen the strongest medications. Not without an assessment of the lunacy in question,' the doctor said, talking over Jim's head like it wasn't his business at all.

Father started to argue.

 

'We could try an option that's less of a painkiller and more of a sedative. Easier with young victims who have yet to reach any control over themselves.'

'Then we're trying that one,' father said.

Jim had said nothing, but when they left, he wasn't quite sure whose safety they had meant anyway.

 

They'd been planned to leave for Brittany for a long weekend the following month, all of them together, and just tell the school they all fell ill that day. Mum wanted a new dress from France, and his father wanted to do something nice for her, since he never did.

And now Jim was really going to fall ill that weekend. In a way he never had before, nonetheless, and he was... Well, honestly he was a tad scared of what it was going to be like. Quite scared.

 

But so were his parents and siblings.

 

After he finally got home from the hospital and from the doctor's check-ins, he felt worn to the bone, like he hadn't slept in two weeks, and sick to his stomach. He went to school, big plasters and stitches all over his arms, and nearly fell asleep in class every single day.

It was like running up a really really high fever, all the time. Moving at all made him dizzy and made him want to drop nose first on the floor, and just stay there, maybe forever. When he got home, he almost did, each day.

 

He felt like something was crawling inside his whole body, all the time, and when he accidentally cut the back of his hand while helping mum peel potatoes, the whole feeling flared up like mad. He felt the rush under his skin. It was his blood that was boiling and rolling like that, and Jim ended up just staring at the scratch and the gushing red in a dull minded shock.

 

'Jim?' mum asked, and he couldn't reply. 'Oh, James! What are you doing?' Mum was wrapping his hand in a cold towel. 'Don't you dare get blood on the potatoes, now. You're all over the shop, what was I thinking. You're not well enough to be helping at all. Get a plaster on that and yourself to bed.'

'Yeah.'

He couldn't exactly tell mum that he now knew he had blood inside him, as well as bones, and neither wanted to stay where they were supposed to.

 

Not that his parents or siblings had slept properly for weeks, either.

 

'Well take him in for the weekend, Greg,' Uncle Harold said over the telephone. 'We've got some room that you haven't. And you've got that little voyage of yours coming up.'

'Hardly a good idea, Harry,' father said, and gave Jim a tense look as he stood by the door and waited for what it was going to be.

'What are you going on about? It's the best chance for you all to pull through.'

Father was quiet for a good minute. He let out a sigh, and looked at Jim straight in the eye, as he said to the phone: 'Harry, you raise sheep.'

'I don't kill sheep!' Jim said.

'You don't know that, Jimmy. Keep it down,' his father said.

He wanted to argue, but he had nothing to argue with.

 

'Greg, please,' Uncle Harold said. Jim waited quietly, his father sighed again. 'Was with our Matthew when it happened. The least I can do is have him out of your hair for the first night. I can see how it goes and set things straight for you while you're away.'

'All right. Feels bloody awful, doing this to you, though.'

'Drop it. We've got room and I can call the doctor over to see how it goes. Matthew should see it too, help his cousin out.'

'It wasn't Matt's fault,' Jim said. His father's look was odd, but he didn't say more to him until the call ended and they'd arranged to get him away in a week, before the full moon.

 

When father hung up the telephone again, he fell silent. He looked at Jim, and Jim found it hard to try and stand still, because he was left without words, too. They were too alike, maybe; that's what mum would have said. When Jim spoke up, his father opened his mouth at the exact same time:

'Do you really think I'll kill sheep?'

'Did you hear Harold's whole call from where you're stood?'

 

His father's question was more than enough of an answer to Jim's own, but it also left him dumb.

 

'I did,' Jim said.

His father frowned. 'I see.'

But he shouldn't have heard any of it. He was still standing in the doorway. Jim hadn't noticed it before his father said it out loud.

'Well,' father said. 'Then you know what we agreed upon.'

'Sure.'

'He'll come here to get you next Friday.'

'Right.'

'You'll see Matthew and June, too. And your aunt.'

'Yeah.' Jim smiled tightly. 'I'm not coming apart at the seams, I'll be fine.'

'Good. I think Harry's going to have kittens, no matter what he says now.'

 

When he sat on the back seat of his uncle's car, and they drove along the motorway, it rained. The whole sky was just grey and the fields were a wet dark green and it was all making his nose runny and the roof of his mouth itch uncomfortably. The full moon was going to be between sunday and monday, but Jim would have lied if he'd said he didn't feel off on Friday already.

And he did lie.

Uncle Harold asked if he was all right for a little talk once they got to the farm, and Jim agreed, and uncle told him how sorry he was about his and Matt's botched fishing trip the night roughly a month ago, and Jim said that it was all right.

 

As if he would have been upset about fish when all the muscles in his body, on his legs and neck and back, had tensed up enough to snap soon. Not only did his bones and blood do their best to escape his skin, but so did all the rest of him too.

 

They called the doctor to come over on Sunday, they agreed to meet him at five o'clock. When he came, he arrived half past, and by then Jim was already half screaming whenever he tried to say something. Everything in him wanted out, and no part of his body wanted to stay stitched together at the seams anymore.

He got the medicine at six, and they walked him outside so June and Aunt Agnes could keep from seeing anything, but it didn't even feel like it helped.

Matt sat across from him and the doctor stood next to him, and his uncle held firmly onto his shoulders.

 

'I can't feel my hands,' Jim cried, and his voice cracked in a way it normally didn't. It didn't sound like his own voice at all.

'That's supposed to happen,' the doctor said, and it was terrifying.

'I can't feel my legs!' he said.

'Yes, son, that's what the medication is for,' the doctor said, checking his watch, then a separate moon-watch.

He smelled all the wet grass and earth of the weekend rains and smelled the damp sheep from across the yard, and the strange doctor's unfamiliar lemon soap. He heard someone close a door somewhere, and it took a while before he realised that it was on the neighbouring farm, because he heard their sheepdog barking, too. Not his uncle's.

'I can't feel my mouth,' he tried to say, but couldn't really even make it sound like speech. His eyes were so wet he could hardly see.

 

Jim heard the doctor say something about the hay barn, and Uncle Harold pushed him gently.

'Jimmy?'

All he could do was cry.

'James?' uncle asked. Jim stumbled on his knees over the damp grass, and his uncle had to haul him up and carry him on his back, because his legs gave out. All Jim could do was cry and hold onto his shoulders with hands that felt like claws.

 

And then they got inside the barn, and his hands really were claws, and all he knew in the dim light was fear and fur. Maybe a familiar voice or two, too, though they sounded strange.

 

He didn't know where he was, when he woke up. He didn't know how to talk. He didn't even recognise Cousin Matt until Uncle Harold had been talking to him for a good fifteen minutes. He was cold and tired and hungry, and he hurt all over, but he didn't know what to say.

'Matthew.'

'Dad?'

'Run us a blanket and a fresh jumper for your cousin, will you.'

'Yeah.'

Jim couldn't say a thing.

'You put up quite a show, last night, lad. That was a real werewolf, all right,' his uncle told him, forcing him to listen to him again. 'But nothing we couldn't handle. Good thing that you and Gregory got hold of the pills for you, made you listen to me a bit, I reckon. And, without the doctor it might have been worse for the barn.'

Jim nodded, for want of anything better.

'Love me, love my dog, eh?' And Uncle Harold gave him a smile and a rough hug. 'That's what you're going to be saying from now on if anyone looks at you wrong.'

Jim nodded again. It made him feel a bit better, maybe; not any worse anyway.

 

And then he'd gone home, that week.

Uncle Harold and their doctor had told his father what had happened, when Jim couldn't do it himself.

 

There was no way to describe it in terms of words. Jim wasn't one for drawing either, never had been, and only played a handful of instruments very poorly. Didn't sing _one bit._ He had tried to describe how he felt, a few times, and then he gave up.

 

If someone had asked for a colour, he would've said maroon, maybe. It was an angry colour, but old and strange and with a dull kind of bite, the kind that had to bite with more force to tear through. Or a dark and oily blue, or maybe a kind of cold neon white.

If someone had asked for a feel, like a texture, he would have said that it was the feel of a knife against china, or running the back of your hand against a coarse brick wall, or the jolt that ran up your arm a while after picking up a rotten vegetable and seeing it riddled with maggots.

 

But no one ever asked for things like those. And if he tried to say them out loud - he'd tried once, to the neighbours' kids, Timmy and Lizzie, when they asked him to tell how it felt - people looked at him like he'd lost it completely.

Well, no one had ever said he was a poet, either. Maybe _it just feels like I'm twisting through my skin despite myself_ was as close as he was ever going to get, with words.

 

He didn't want to make people upset, so he started to say that he didn't know.

'Does it hurt?' He didn't know.

'How do you feel?' He didn't know.

'Is it scary?' He didn't know, but hopefully it wasn't as scary to anyone else. And at least Cousin Matt hadn't got bit, so that was good.

 

And then _he_ didn't want to get upset, so when people kept asking and he noticed that it was making him _angry with them,_ each month more than he could remember being before, he stopped saying that, too.

 

'Does it hurt?'

He nodded.

'How do you feel?'

He shook his head.

'Is it scary?'

He shrugged and hoped that it wasn't for the rest of them, but if they _kept yakking on about it,_ maybe his wishes would change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making up things as I go expanding this universe makes for interesting side settings and characters, mostly just for character building purposes.
> 
> There will be a third chapter for when these two finally met at work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More character sketching and worldbuilding around werewolves. Lads bonding over a pint.

Jim carried two pints with him to the table Morse had claimed for them. Morse sat quietly, glancing over his shoulder at other pub-goers whenever his attention strayed from his crosswords. Both of them had dressed down for the evening - Morse was in an old thick jumper and Jim in a soft brown wool jacket, anything to get out of the uniform after a long day. They hadn't really had a choice, either, after getting told off for sticking their noses into bigger business.

 

Jakes and Thursday had been running after leads on a country house robbery for the last three days. Morse had been helping around, collecting evidence, and information from witnesses. Then he'd asked if the old professor, supposedly a victim, had a hand in the business himself, and that was the end of it.

Morse had argued against his shelving - he could have looked for the missing college records better than anyone - but Mr Bright had denied it. Jim and Morse had been left to look into a small garden break-in with a bicycle theft. Non-issues in Oxford, really, however poor it made their line of work sound.

 

Nevermind Thursday's keen sense for the most rotten of human blood, for lies and untruths; or Jakes's surprising habit of knowing where bad intentions came from, they hadn't got far.

 

'But it's a woman, right?' Jim had whispered to Morse, when they snuck into the evidence room to steal a glance or two. 'Not a man's cologne, I figure.' The lingering scent was too sweet, faint as it was.

'Likely. Or...' Morse pointed at the rounded longhand on their sample page, how slow and neat it looked. 'I was thinking, perhaps it isn't Stevens-Biggs, after all, who is responsible for even writing the stolen work.'

They looked at each other.

'But his wife, you mean?' Jim asked. 

Morse gave him a firm nod. 'I know that wherever they are looking for the papers-'

'Balford shipping company. They've got their lorries close by the estate.'

'Yes, and the test papers and recommendations are  _ not going to _ be there.'

'How are you so sure, matey?' Jim frowned.

'The car,' Morse hissed.

'What about it?'

'The boot is so mouldy you could smell it for miles.'

'I thought the same about that Stevens-Biggs himself,' Jim chuckled. 'Bloody professors...'

Morse lifted an eyebrow.

'Oh. Right.' Jim crossed his arms over his broad chest. 'Mrs Stevens-Biggs hasn't been anywhere near that car.'

'Exactly.'

 

And that was when Thursday had told them off for snooping.

'You're done for today. Both of you.' His eyes were stern and old as always, tense as ever with the two of them around, but he made his voice warm.

'Sir-'

'Morse, I mean it,' Thursday said. Morse shoved his hands down his pockets, and Jim pulled his shoulders back in a nervous effort to appear professional. 'Go and enjoy your evening off. I appreciate the effort, and I know you've a keen nose on you, but this one's not a pack hunt. You've been restless already. Take Strange with you and wind down.'

'Sir.'

_ Restless _ was a relatively kind way to say "full moon comes up next week", and Jim appreciated the inspector's effort. Morse only felt like he was being talked down to, more so than had Thursday's words been picked with less care.

 

'They will need your help later,' WPC Trewlove had said calmly when she'd left for home in stride with them. Morse and Jim had given her and each other curious looks. She was another new constable at Cowley, but bright and brave enough to have already gained Mr Bright's approval. 

Morse wasn't stupid enough to feel jealous, but he was very curious about her. 

'How do you know that?' he'd asked.

'Tomorrow,' Trewlove had replied with a smile. 'I know you feel sidelined, but if you ask that Sergeant Jakes about it tomorrow, he will tell you they have a need for two more heads on the case. And I'll be there too.'

'You will?' Jim had asked with a confused frown.

Shirley had nodded calmly, before nodding her goodbyes. 'Surely as you two, as long as you decide to. Thank you for walking me to my stop!'

 

'She's a seer, right? One of those clairvoyant types,' Jim had asked Morse when she got onto her bus. 

Morse shrugged in return. 'Must be. And a clever and thorough policewoman, too.'

'How do you reckon that works? Foresight, I mean. Does she just… see things before they happen?'

'That's usually the implication, I think.'

'No, I mean… oh, you sod.' Jim huffed and Morse smirked. 'This is like trying to follow the doc when he talks.'

'DeBryn, you mean?' Morse frowned. They had met on a few (admittedly unpleasant) occasions over the last few months, and got along rather better than Morse usually did with new acquaintances. 'How so?'

'I swear if he told me tomorrow his grandmother was a sphinx, I'd believe him.'

'That's something you should ask him, not me,' Morse had pointed out on their way to the Flag.

'Maybe, but I'd just get myself left with more questions than answers, matey.'

 

Morse nodded his thanks quietly as Jim set a pint down in front of him. He put his crosswords away, and Jim sat down with a sigh.

They weren't friends, not quite, but somehow they kept bumping into each other day after day. If Morse arrived and went looking for another pair of eyes and ears (or another nose), Jim had no trouble picking up his tracks and finding him in whatever trouble he landed himself into. If Jim had anything to suggest to the CID officers, Morse's ears perked up to his thoughts quicker than the rest. 

 

Then again, that alone made them closer friends than Morse was with anyone else at the station.

Jakes seemed more than a little offended that his detective work got cut short because of Morse and his "nosy" nature, his "hounding" of the suspects, or his "lunatic" theories. The two of them definitely hadn't started their teamwork on the right foot, and Morse's snappy retorts didn't exactly help it, either. Whenever he and Jakes were both at the crime scene, most of Inspector Thursday's time went to managing his detectives instead of solving the case at hand. 

Not that Morse  _ wanted _ to be a source of disappointment. He just didn't have Jim's wide shoulders that Jakes didn't quite have the nerve to start mocking as viciously. And he did have a habit of not knowing when to get wound up, or whether it was about the right things.

 

'It's personal for you, isn't it?' Jim asked Morse quietly. He didn't want to be too invasive, but it was a question he'd wondered about for a while. Morse looked up at him, and shrugged one shoulder.

'My mother,' he said and pulled a face, though he kept his words soft. 'She was a... Well, I've known what I am since I was a child.'

'Mm. Right.' Jim nodded quietly, and took a sip of his beer. 'I was fourteen. On a fishing trip with my cousin,' he said with a dry chuckle. 'Someone had gone mad from the moon and snuck up on us. Two boys, Matthew was older and ran away faster. They arrested the man later.'

'And what good did it do. Now you're here, stuck with me,' Morse said with half a smile. Jim snorted out a laugh and nodded.

'You're all right. I thought you were a bit snobby at first, a college wolf and all that. But no, usually you're just like the rest of us,' he said.

'Maybe not  _ usually _ . But I try.'

 

It was easier to sit down with someone who sounded, felt and smelled the same as you yourself did, at least a little. It felt more human, in a way, with less of those around who declared themselves fully so. Easier by far than sitting with those who only saw what they thought they knew.

There was no need to start describing it all, to try and find names for feelings and thoughts. Neither had to try and pretend to be a scientist or a worldly poet - Morse only knew of other people's poetry, amd Jim wasn't that familiar with research at all. They both lacked the skill to name the moon and tell of its pull, or the odd, ugly rush it aroused at the back of your mind. The anger and tension, and the nervous loss of control.

 

When bothered about it, Morse was all silence before an angry bark. Jim was more of a growl and bite first sort of a bloke, but kept his words on the matter to a minimum.

But if the other man already knew how it all felt, perhaps there was no need to do so anyway. Some said that a wolf always knew its kind, and though it was a rather negative saying, it was also true, in terms of words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one I have planned out is actually a full moon night gone wrong, starring Trewlove and Jakes. It's a fun one.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess that for the purposes of this setting rat bastard Cyril thought he'd get rid of a werewolf kid by divorcing, but look how well it turned out.
> 
> So, I might start posting more of these bits and pieces at some point. I haven't got a lot of plot but I have character interactions I want to try out.
> 
> Might update this later to include another different type of chapter if I get around to exploring more werewolf stuff inside this world.  
> Jim Strange is one too, and of a very different breed than scraggly little Morse, so it would be some much-needed backstory for him. ~~Are dog puns like that offensive in this context??~~


End file.
